


Romans 10:9

by vaultsexteen (lokalelyen)



Category: Fallout: New Vegas, Fallout: Van Buren
Genre: A War Criminal Contemplates His Life And Choices, Gen, Good Old Mormon Guilt, Honest Hearts DLC, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Van Buren Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 10:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15362817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokalelyen/pseuds/vaultsexteen
Summary: Before Joshua Graham was known as The Burned Man, he was The Hanged Man.





	Romans 10:9

In late October in 2253, under the blistering Arizona sun, Joshua Graham goes on a pilgrimage.

Caesar in his eternal mercy had him covered in pitch, set aflame, and sent tumbling down the Grand Canyon; all for his spectacular defeat at the hands of the New California Republic, which had been the Legion's biggest threat up to this point. If he had been asked as to what they could have done to prevent this situation, he would have figured that the Legion, despite Caesar's pride in having had amassed a capable force in under a decade, was still too inexperienced to deal with the NCR, which was a much older and more technologically advanced nation, and it would have been wiser for them to just stay East and consolidate more troops there. However, this possibly couldn't have been the case since they had, after all, gained the upper hand during the early phase of the battle; if _he_ hadn't fallen for the NCR's obvious trap in Boulder, they wouldn't have walked away, licking their wounds, with their numbers depleted and no Dam to speak of. The truth of the matter was that he, and he alone, was to blame, and _Caesar_ wouldn't let him forget. He had seen to it, personally, when he etched that failure onto his skin, like the harsh winds blowing the desert sands upwards, shaping the landscape forever.

As the wretched sun beats down on his mangled corpse of a body, crawling across the desert sands, the Temptation of Christ comes to mind. He doesn't know how long it's been since he first set on this journey, as he has stopped counting the sunrises and the sunsets altogether, though he doubts that it has been actually forty days and nights. He would have surely died of exposure, if the cazadores haven't come to feast on his remains yet.

However, he is sure that he is not being tempted, or tested; his judgment has come to pass, and it's never been more agonizingly clear as he rakes at another handful of sand and drags himself forward on with his forearm. The coarseness and grit of the ground has long since rubbed the feeling from his angry red skin, and he is left with only the sense to drag ever forward, forward, forward. He knows not where he goes, or where he would even want to go; perhaps he will find himself at the foot of a tribal village, or perhaps Flagstaff. Either way, he'll end up on the cross sooner or later for even daring to be alive, though right now he quite shares in the sentiment that he would be better off dead.

Maybe he _is_ dead, and he is in Hell, after all. Not only must he be punished for failing the Legion in the earthly realm - he has failed the Heavenly Father, and must crawl, alone, in eternal torment. A fitting punishment for straying from his God-given mission of spreading the Good Word, and leaving only destruction in his wake. He was there when the man Edward Sallow christened himself the demon Caesar, and he was the one who gave in to the temptations of power and became a tool for his conquest. Indeed, at any time he could have stayed on the path the Lord had set before him - he kept straying off not unlike a lost lamb, much like a foolish child who was curious to see what was on the other side of the brambled thicket.

He helped Caesar as he whipped the numerous tribes into loyal soldiers, and directly pillaged many of their villages in the name of glory and conquest. In the name of the Legion, in the name of the Son of Mars, in the name of a false idol.

He deserves this.

As he lays there, his head bowed down, his forearms all but supporting the full weight of him, an unusually cool breeze whistles through the air and sends a chill through him. He looks up to see if there could be anything that has caused this phenomenon, and there is nothing but sand on the horizon and an endless clear sky and the sun - but, as he squints, he can make out the faint outline of a stone building, possibly a camp of some sort. If he is where he thinks he is, then... well, he'll just have to find out.

By the time he reaches the camp, the sun is beginning to set in the west, and he can see that he is at the ruins of the NCR's old Fort Aradesh. The sand-colored adobe brick still stands tall, though it is riddled with bullet holes and scorch marks, and it is crumbling in places. He can remember the day they took this location, can still see clearly as the fires burn and as the bodies of NCR soldiers littered the sand; the scent of death and decay in the air that hung thick in the air the night they conquered this place has been replaced with the stale odor of ash and abandonment. Nothing else remains inside the fort, as their troops had seen to that long ago. The flag of the NCR, however, still stands, though it is flying upside-down - calling for help that will never arrive.

He crawls his way until he arrives at the flagpole on top of the old base, grabs a hold of it, and prepares to lean against it. From where he is, he can easily see Flagstaff, at the end of the Highway 89. He sees the guards and the caravan drivers preparing to journey out of the city, no doubt heading north. They'll pass by here sooner or later. Of course, there is no longer a place for him in Flagstaff. There is nowhere for him anywhere in the Four States; not even New Canaan will take him back, now. He has been marked for death, cursed to eternally roam; there is only him, and there is his punishment.

_Cain said to the Lord, “My punishment is more than I can bear. Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.” But the Lord said to him, “Not so; anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.” Then the Lord put a mark on Cain so that no one who found him would kill him.  
_

_So_ , he muses, _if no-one is to kill me, perhaps I should be the one to deliver such retribution._

With more conviction than he ever had crawling through the Arizona wasteland, he quickly sets to work loosing the knot at the base of the pole, and fashions a crude noose, which he then slips around his neck and tightens. He crawls, inch by inch, the length of the large metal structure, and prepares himself. He raises his head to look at the sky; it has turned into the ruddy hues of rust and dust, as if the Lord Himself is casting a shadow over what is about to happen. _Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for God made man in his own image._

He drops himself over the edge, and he swings, ever so slightly.

Many caravans pass by Fort Abandon on their routes, and barely take notice in the darkness of the night. In the light of the new morning, they are frightened away by the corpse's appearance - red all over, like it had been flayed, its clothes almost melded into its skinless torso and legs. Though, if they dared to come closer, they could see that the corpse was in fact cursing under its breath, its eyes piercing into them as they passed by without a single word. The sun grows high in the sky, and starts bleaching everything it touches, including Joshua Graham. His breathing is growing shallower by the minute, but it's at such a snail's pace; he is thinking that he might as well have not bothered with this whole thing, in the first place. The rope rubs against his raw skin, and he jerks involuntarily; soon, he's thrashing against his one restraint.

He screams, _really_ lets himself scream, and pulls at the rope that's chafing at his neck. It only makes him scream more, in his frustration - he doesn't understand, he _has_ to understand - _why can't he just die?_ What on Earth would be keeping him here - there's nothing he can live for - he just _can't_ \- he _has to die, he just has to -_ he's too dangerous to be around others, he's better off in Hell where he'll be punished _…_

The sound of rancorous laughter peals across the sordid scene.

He stops his fit and looks at the source of the sound; a young wastelander, a large pack hung over one shoulder, doubled over in mirth. The first thing he notices is the peculiar blue and yellow jumpsuit, almost like the vault suits the New Canaanites had once wore, but not quite.

When they are done, they peer up at him, incredulous, rather than afraid. "Hey! You ain’t gonna spaz no more, Hangman?," she asks, keeping the laughter out of their voice, and failing. "Shucks."

He only ever stares back.

She speaks, again, for him. "A'int ghouls s'posed to be immortal, or somethin'? What kinda fool ghoul are ya, anyway, if you gone and tried to hang yourself?”

She quickly makes her way over to where he limply hangs, scurrying up footholds in the adobe. “I’m real sorry I laughed, _really_ I am. Cross my heart an’ all - it was just too good! If you’d seen your fool self you’d have laughed too, prob’ly. I mean, how often do you see someone who’s _mad_ they’re hangin’, honestly?”

The stranger brandishes a large combat knife, which makes quick work of the rope. He falls to the ground with a loud _thud_ , as he lands on the large pack she had been carrying.She leaps back down, and quickly inspects him - from his ravaged face, to his limbs, and the melded-on clothes. From the angle that he sees them, he can get a good look at her face; ruddy, tanned complexion with a snub nose and a wide mouth, a hard, squared chin. Sunlight shines through her shaggy, dark brown curls, and suddenly he understands.

"Come along, now," she says, and he is being carried on the stranger's back.

She carries him to the shade of the ruins and puts him in one corner as she sets up a small camp, laying out a bedroll and making a fire pit. As he studies her closer, he can see that her apparel is not, in fact, a vault suit, though he has no idea what it could be otherwise, or where she could have gotten it. She drags his prone form over to the bedroll, and she’s talking again, but he can no longer hear what she has to say - his hearing swims in and out, like he's bobbing his head in a lake, and his vision is getting spotty and fading altogether.

He dreams of nothing.

When he awakens, it's night time, and he is covered in a fur blanket. He sees that his wounds have been cleaned and dressed, mostly, and that the stranger has cut him free of his old clothes. Illuminated by the glowing fire that is roasting something in a small pot, she is busy reading through a salacious magazine, and a lit cigarette hangs loosely from a corner of her mouth.

"Hey, you're awake," she says, putting the cigarette out on the dirt. "Been cooking up a gecko stew. Better get something in your belly, you probably ain’t eaten in days." Weeks, more like, but he appreciated the sentiment all the same. She ladles some into a smaller, metal bowl for him, and takes the rest of the clay pot for herself - just as well, he supposes, if he ate too much he would most likely throw it all back up.

"Man," she starts, "you look like hell. What happened to you?"

"Legion," he says, and that is all the explanation he needs.

It's enough explanation for her too, because she nods with vigor. "I seen them Legion boys marchin' around, they're fuckin' _brutal_ , they got even tough-as-shit raiders pissin' themselves cryin' for their mama," she says. "String folks up on these crosses and shit. Ain’t nothin' like any other gang I've ever seen." She rubs her hands when she mentions the crucifixion, face pulled up in an exaggerated wince.

He mumbles his approval, and doesn't answer any more of the stranger's questions. He learns a couple of things about his rescuer, though: she is called Crazy-Eyes, and her eyes are indeed mismatched - one pale blue, and the other a deep brown; she comes from far South, farther than the current borders of the Four States, though she had been doing... some sort of business with an outer Legion territory when she had been captured by Legionnaires; she later woke up not in her cell, but somewhere called the Tibbets, where her cell wall had mysteriously blown up and she and several others were able to escape.

"It's been a real tizzy," she admits, and he is content to watch her prattle on. "I was headed up north, actually. Had some unfinished business with them Blackfoot folk." She illuminates a pristine looking Pip-Boy to show a glowing, green map. "You got anywhere to go?"

The answer is simple. "No."

She seems to realize her mistake, maybe remembering that the man before her had been hanging from a noose when she first saw him. " _Shit._ You really been down on your luck, huh?"

"Maybe so," he says. "Nonetheless, if thou canst believe, all things are possible to him that believeth."

Crazy-Eyes looks him up and down, and laughs. "What the fuck did you say just now? Thou can say the… the who, now?"

He sighs, sucking in the air through his clenched teeth. "It means," he explains, "that everything is possible, to one who believes."

"Yeah?" Crazy-Eyes says, and leans forward. "Y'know, I thought the only thing folks that hang themselves believed was that there ain’t nothin' to believe in no more."

"...I believed so, that much is true," he says, "though the fact that you came along may have been a sign that I was mistaken."

"Shucks." At that, she only smirks. "Just seemed too cruel to leave someone who was clearly alive and kickin' like that. I just did what decent folk would'a done, that's all."

He mulls her words over, as she finishes off the rest of her stew. "May I join you to the Blackfoot village?," he asks - the words seem to escape his lips before he can even think them over.

She gazes up at him, perhaps weighing her options. "Sure," she says.

At dawn, they both set off - one pilgrimage completed, another one just beginning.

* * *

 He had heard about the caravan that had been hit by the White Legs - vile, the whole lot - and he knew that only one courier had survived the encounter. He knew that Follows Chalk would soon be making his way over with their incidental visitor at any moment. In the meantime, he busied himself with the routine maintenance of their .45’s; he locks the slide back, ejects the magazine, checks the chamber for any remaining rounds, then looks down the barrel. It is a rhythm he has become greatly accustomed to, over the years, and he finds himself blissfully distracted as he goes through the stack.

A loud cry startles him from his routine, and he looks up, quizzically. In front of him, Follows Chalk backs away, just as startled as he, when an aged woman with long, white hair trailing behind her rushes towards him, grinning from ear to ear. She looks to be in quite good health, despite her obvious age; her build is stocky, and large muscles ripple through the thin fabric of her shirt. Her leathery, tanned skin bears a number of scars and pockmarks, most notable of which is what appears to be a particularly gnarly bullet scar on her left temple. The eye below it is milky and trails behind, though it's dark opposite seems to be as alert as ever as it scans him with obvious interest.

“Hangman,” she laughs, and Joshua rises to his feet. She screams with laughter, rushing to embrace him - her old companion.

He towers over her physically, but he always feels so small compared to her, especially when she enveloped him in this warm embrace. “Crazy-Eyes,” he mumbles into her hair, “or is it only Crazy- _Eye,_ now.”

She breaks into another fit of laughter - she really hasn’t changed. “At least you didn’t call me _Prisoner,_ you ol’ fart. Been keepin’ on the good side of the law, mostly,” she says. “But, if anyone asks - it’s Zee, now.”

She disembarks from the hug, and gives him a too-hard pat on the back. “When that kid told me we’d go see _Joshua Graham, the war chief_ , I thought I’d truly gone off the deep end! I mean, I couldn’t fuckin’ believe it - well, I _can_ , but…”

“A lot has happened since we saw each other last.” It’s true - nearly thirty years have passed, in fact. Enough time for the winds of the desert to have carved deep etches into her face, and for the dust to have stripped her hair of its color. He idly wonders if time has brought the prisoner of Tibbets to her knees, made her settle down in some small town with a family of her own to worry about. Then, he shakes off the notion - no, if she were like that, she wouldn't be a courier, wouldn't have the same wild look in her remaining eye, and she wouldn't have made her way to him again, after all this time.

“And here I thought you’d be back in New Canaan,” she says, and he feels something inside him reflexively coil up and tighten. “Preachin’ to the choir or whatever it is you Mormons do. Haven’t been back in ages, it’s where we was headed...”

So she hasn’t heard. “New Canaan is gone,” he says, trying to keep calm. She can sense how tense he’s become, however, and shoots him a look of shock, then pity.

“Well, fuck.” She motions to take his hands, and he lets her, ever the touchy one. “What happened?” she asks, gently.

As they make their way to the fire pit in the middle of his chambers in the Angel Cave, he recounts what had happened since they parted ways all those years ago; though he had been able to hide for several years, the Legion finally came sniffing at the door of New Canaan like the hounds that they were. They had employed the tribals of the Great Salt Lake, the White-Legs, to attack the city and to find and kill all of the New Canaanites; though he knew, deep down, that Caesar only wanted to execute him once and for all, and in exchange they would become part of the Legion. Around thirty of them from New Canaan had survived, after all of their experiences; first, with New Jerusalem, and now, with New Canaan. They had found that cities were but brick and stone, but the tribe yet remained. They have been in Zion ever since, continuing their missionary work with the support of the Dead Horses and the Sorrows, though there is still much to be done if they are to live peacefully.

“Those White-Legs are dead men walkin',” she says, and uses the fire to light a cigarette. “Should’a known better than to trust those Legion fucks, all they’ll do is turn ‘em inna slaves when it comes down to it.” She sticks it in her mouth and takes a long drag, waiting for his response.

“They do not know so,” he explains. “The temptation to become part of a larger force always draws tribes to the Legion, even at the cost of slavery. They believe that they will gain power and prestige in doing so, but these will only prove to be their downfall. The Legion has always been a godless society, and lacks the morals to become a truly worthy nation.”

"Godless?" A thick eyebrow quirks up. “Thought they worship that emperor of theirs, Caesar. Got a church around him or whatever.”

“An idol,” he growls, “A false god. When the Lord led his people out of Egypt, they took all of their gold, and melted it down to create a statue of a calf, and worshiped it as a god; so too, is the Bull, and it too, shall be struck down.”

“The NCR,” she says, “you think they worship that bear of theirs like a god, too?”

“It’s not - I am not referring to a literal statue,” he says - Zee is laughing at him, though, and he relaxes. He had missed her ribbing - it made him realize just how seriously he carried himself, at times.

“Just kiddin’,” she says, and punches him in the arm. “I got it, I think. You know, I could prob’ly say the same thing about, uh,” she looks up, thinking of a comparison, “the Brotherhood.”

“I do not know much about them,” he admits, “only that they had a war with the NCR years ago. I have not seen them this far east, though I hear that they have chapters beyond the Four States.

“Yeah,” she says, and her face becomes overcast. “like down south, where I was from.” He has not ever heard her admit much about her own home, or her past, and he cannot think of an appropriate response. “Sometimes, I think those power armored jackasses weren’t just _obsessed_ with shiny plasma guns, they _worship_ ‘em, in their way. They'd do anything to get their grubby little hands on ‘em, even turn to raidin’ caravans if they think they got somethin’ they shouldn't.”

He pauses to consider this. “I had heard that they had a sworn duty to technology itself,” he says, “and not just ‘shiny plasma guns’.”

She laughs, though it is a cruel, hard laugh. “Yeah, the Codex says that. Any dumb Initiate worth his suit will say that, too. But it a’int true, and people know it - they don’t care about using tech to ‘advance mankind’ or nothin’ like that. You’ve been with me to the Nursery.”

He did remember the Nursery - a private Garden of Eden, tucked away in a valley near Twin Mothers territory, overflowing with all kinds of beasts and plant life. It had been guarded by robots, and run by a mysterious living computer. Their party had helped the living computer, Diana, with repairs. That one man they had been traveling with - Gannon, he recalls his name being - had been the most helpful of them during that expedition. He does seem to recall, however, that Zee herself had shown a surprisingly comprehensive understanding of the complex mechanical systems involved in the Nursery's maintenance - which now made sense if she had been a member of the Brotherhood in her past.

She leans back, and gazes longingly at the fire. “Yeah, no way the Brotherhood would even know what to _do_ with all that, other'n lock it away forever,” she sighs, seeming to be talking more to herself than to him. “They ain’t interested in tech that actually _helps_ folks, not really. All they believe is that they're the only ones fit to have it good in the world."

She turns to face him, and gives him a tired little smile. “Believing in something ain’t enough, y’know? Whatever Codex or set of laws or Bibles people have, it ain’t ever enough. It ain’t about what convictions you have, way I see it. Wastelanders don’t care none about all that. It’s all about what you do. So when I see someone like Caesar, who says he wants to unify all these tribes and make ‘em ‘civilized folk’, but then he turns ‘em into slaves - or how the NCR is all ‘democracy’ an’ ‘freedom’, but they’re harder to rassle up than their Brahmin herds - hell, I dunno. Makes me sick of it all.”

He ponders her words for a minute, choosing his words carefully. “ _God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for him, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs,"_ he finally says. "No matter what we do in this world, we will all get our judgment in the end. Those righteous who believe in His glory will be saved, while those who have sinned against Him will be punished. So is the Word of the Lord."

She snorts at that - she had always taken His teachings with a grain of salt, though he thinks that she appreciates it, nonetheless. “That wasn’t what I’d come to expect from ya, chief. What the hell are you doing here, then?”

“ _Transgressors will be altogether destroyed; The posterity of the wicked will be cut off,_ ” he recites. “Of course, this does not mean we will stay idly by, as the wicked do cruel, debased things; no, it is our duty as the Children of God to bring the Word to them.”

“That’s more like it.” She tosses the butt of the cigarette in the fire, and it is reduced to cinders.

* * *

From where he stands, he can see Burham Springs continue to burn.

The starry Utah sky provides the backdrop to the smoldering remains of the mining town below. Perched on a cliff, he can plainly see the amber flames rise up into the night, smoke billowing and surrounding the area in a thick haze that threatens to choke his senses, even from where he is camped out. Like Hell on Earth - a fitting punishment for the NCR’s failures.

He supposes that the gehennas, the tortured souls made of burning tar, are still roaming the toxic caves like they have been since before he first ventured outside the walls of New Canaan. Stories scared children into not going out after dark, lest the gehennas of the Burning Spring come to drag him down to Hell. Now, he supposes, that he’s as good as turned into a gehenna himself, cursed to burn for eternity and drag others down to Hell with him. Almost as if it was meant to be like this - and so, he laughs, at the cruelty of it all.

He was not ever meant to stay in the Promised Land. He has been cast out for his sins once - they would be foolish to try and take him back. No, he is Cain, cursed for striking against his fellow man, the wanderer who will not die, who must pay for his sin for all eternity. At this, he laughs, and laughs, and laughs, as Hell blazes on. This is where he is supposed to be - where there is only fire, and destruction, and death.

“Woah,” a voice behind him cries, “did _you_ do all that?” Turning his head around, he sees that it is only Crazy-Eyes.

“You decided to travel without the rest,” he states.

“What’d ya think I am, stupid? Naw, the crew got a camp out here, but I went out anyway to look for your dumb ass.” She makes a few strides towards him, looking him in the eye. “You know, Kurisu didn’t want me to go out ‘n find you - thinks you’re cursed or somethin’ - and that’s why you were drawn here. Says it’s messed up land, only for the crazies.”

“Interesting,” he says. “Yet, you came, anyway.”

“Yeah, you dipshit. I did.” She sounds like she is daring him to do something, anything, about it. “You didn’t wanna come with us to New Canaan, said you were gonna ‘take care’ of things. What'd you have to 'take care' of, huh?"

He sharply exhales, then, preparing himself for the storm that is to follow. “It hardly matters."

Her jaw goes slack, then snaps back up. “You’re kidding?” Some sort of noise escapes him, then, and he cannot bring himself to respond. Not when she is looking at him like... _that_.

They stand there in silence for a few moments, watching as the black smoke continues to rise, as the few remaining buildings continue to collapse, as the flames continue to lick at the dark sky.

She slowly inhales, and lets out a slow sigh. “Talked to your old Bishop, while we was in New Canaan.”

Bishop Mordecai... He hadn’t known that he was back from resettling New Jerusalem. It probably hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped. He hasn’t really gotten a chance to see him, after almost a decade away from home - doesn’t know _what_ he would say to him, now, or what the other man would think. What had he said? What did she know?

He grunts, hoping to sound as non-committal as he possibly can.

“You know,” she says, “whenever people find out who you are, it’s always ‘the Malpais Legate', or ‘the Burned Man - I just called you ‘Hangman’, ‘cause I found you hangin’... But that ol’ bishop called you somethin' else.” She turns to look at him, but he is only looking at the flames. “He said you was called Joshua Graham, once. ‘S’at true?”

"Yes,” he answers. "Once."

“But not anymore?”

“No,” he says, and he looks down at his feet, suddenly feeling so much more vulnerable. “Joshua Graham has been dead for a long time.”

That elicits a laugh - a short, mocking bark of a laugh. “And here I was, thinkin’ that he was right here. Must be seein’ ghosts.” He can feel her pause, then tentatively try to touch his arm; as if to see if he is real, and not a mirage. He bristles at the sudden contact - she has tried to touch him before, and should logically know by now that he has always hated it. Yet, she persists.

“Why have you come for me?,” he asks.

She snorts, as if he has asked the stupidest question she has ever heard. “You told me yourself - we’d meet back here, right? When we was through with New Canaan. Just kept my word, is all.”

He hadn’t expected her to actually come here, much less seek him out. Even her other companions had advised against it. It was an illogical move on her part - he is a murderer, he is cursed, he is a marked man, yet she had poured in all this effort to find him again. “ _Why_ have you come for me,” he repeats.

Her face twists into a mask of rage. “Are you _deaf?_ ” she screams, getting in his space. “Or a’int you hearin’ what I’m sayin’?! I _said_ I’d come back for you - I ain’t goin’ back on my word. If I hadn’t found you here, I would’a come down the wreckage of that there town to see if you was in there, _Joshua_.”

He tenses when he hears the name. _His_ name. It has been a long time since anyone has called him that, he hasn’t been addressed by it since…

“So you did a lot of fucked up things,” she continues, “did a lot of stupid shit that turned you into a jackass that ev’ryone hates. Guess what! Me, too!” She starts pointing to herself, jabbing her thumb to her chest. "But you know what? I’m _done_ feelin’ sorry for myself. I can’t erase what I did. Time ain’t never gonna slow down or go back for me - all I have is what’s ahead.”

He decides to play devil’s advocate, to test her further - he is not wholly convinced by her just yet. “How do you know,” he starts, “that I have felt sorry for myself, as you say? That I have felt remorse for my actions?” He takes a step forward and roughly shoves her, looking down at her. The firelight is reflected in both of her eyes, and it is all he can see. “I have stayed away due to the bounty on my head - who is to say that I do not wish to return to my post, and continue the work I had once done?”

She grits her teeth at him, pulling back her lips in a snarl. “Stop bullshitting me,” she growls. “If you’d meant that, you wouldn’t’ve stuck to _me_ as long as you did. _You_ were the one who wanted to come with me in the first place.” She takes a step towards him, now, her shoulders rolling back, chest puffing out. “Even when folks treated me like a fuckin’ ghoul ‘cause I was with ya, even when you were being more _stubborn_ than a wild hayburner - I thought about leavin’ ya to the fuckin’ wolves, but I _didn’t_. Naw, you had nobody else who could stand you for more’n two seconds - everyone, even your Caesar, wants your head on a fuckin’ pike.”

She is right, and they both know it. He tries to say something, tries to posture himself to fight back - but he feels small, so small, and he cannot bear to look at her anymore. He turns back to the fire of the Springs - it is still burning, destroying everything it touches.

“Mordecai said,” she sighs, “that they’d gladly take you back, if you… if you want that, I mean.”

He can feel himself tighten up, can feel his heart pounding in his chest, as he clenches his fists tightly at his sides. Burham Springs continues to burn.

"He did," she continues. "Gave me his word an' all, and told me to let ya know as soon as I saw you. Said you'd be welcomed back with open arms."

The word tumbles out of his mouth, before he even fully knows that he is saying it. "N... _no._ "

“...No?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. “Look, I dunno why you’re getting your bandages all up in a twist - you can talk to him yourself, for all _I_ care, but I really think you ought to consider it... I mean, what you done, he says that it ain’t nothin' if you confess, or somethin' like that.”

 _If you declare with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved._ He cannot help but wonder - is there really any salvation for a man such as himself? How can she be so... _sure_ , after all the atrocities he had committed for a lost cause? Surely she knew by now what he had done, the Bishop was not one to mince his words. Even so, he only has Bishop Mordecai's word to go off of - what about the rest of the New Canaanites? Would they be so forgiving after all this time? No, he cannot risk it. Who knows what would happen if he _is_ welcomed back - the Legion - _Edward -_ would go after them.

“I _can’t_ ,” he spits, and he feels his throat tightening, threatening to choke him, and he wishes that a noose were wrapped around it. "Not now."

She stares at him, and her expression twists. Her arms cross at her chest as she sighs through her nose, and he feels her eyes burning through him - then she quickly turns around the way she came. “We don’t have to go back _now,_ ” she huffs, walking away. Each step lands with a finality in the dust. “But I’m expecting you back at our camp, you brahminshit.”

He watches her walk away, and when he feels as though she has gone far enough, he follows her. Of course, he will be right there. He has strayed off the Lord’s path once; he will stray no more.

**Author's Note:**

> Reuploaded with a shit ton of edits because I finally feel good enough about it to not take it down after two weeks, haha.
> 
> This fic ended up becoming the jumping-off point for an entire AU, where the events of Van Buren were canon in the timeline of New Vegas, essentially merging the two games together. Since writing Romans, I've reworked the concept so much that this fic is basically non-canon... I'm leaving this up as a sort of tribute, I guess. Something I can look back on and compare to the rest of the Van Buren AU fics to - if I ever get up and actually write them, that is.
> 
> Joshua Graham fucking sucks, and his character is such an interesting well of dysfunction to explore. I plan to rewrite the events of Honest Hearts in the context of the Van Buren AU, so expect more of me writing him in the future (for better or for worse).
> 
> Come say hi if you liked this, I'm vaultsexteen on Tumblr and Twitter.


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